


Cybernetics

by neurovicky, spiderfire



Category: Agent Carter (TV), Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Canon Backstory, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Hydra (Marvel), Missing Scene, POV Arnim Zola, Period-Typical Racism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-12
Updated: 2015-11-12
Packaged: 2018-04-30 02:56:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 20,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5147732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neurovicky/pseuds/neurovicky, https://archiveofourown.org/users/spiderfire/pseuds/spiderfire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A week or so before Hydra’s final offensive, Arnim Zola is supervising the loading of weapons and supplies onto a train to transport them to Hydra HQ. One thing after another goes wrong. The train leaves late. There is traffic on the tracks. And then, the Howling Commandoes turn up. The change in his fortunes is devastating, and yet, within this tremendous defeat, is an opportunity for a new triumph.</p><p>This story follows the canon from shortly before the train scene in CA:TFA through to the last scene from Agent Carter, told from Zola’s perspective.</p><p> </p><p>  <img class="vert"/></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Factory

**Author's Note:**

> **Cybernetics** /ˌsībərˈnediks/ noun: the science of communications and automatic control systems in both machines and living things.

It was never quiet on the factory floor. 

The factory floor was vast. It was the sort of inside space where a visitor knew he was inside because of the way sound echoed and the air felt still, but he could not see across it. Standing near the entrance, the far wall disappeared into a maze of pipes, towering storage tanks and walkways that criss-crossed the work area. It was impossible to see the ceiling proper. Looking up, the visitor would be blinded by the giant blue lamps that left an afterimage in his eyes. The lamps were spaced in a grid and even that pattern converged away into the distance. 

One would think that such a big space would be calm, that the vast volume would consume the noise of acres of machinery and hundreds or thousands of men within, but it didn’t. There was a low rumble from the fans and pumps and conveyor belts that never ceased. There was a high pitch whine from the glowing blue columns of tesseract energy, as thick around as a Black Forest tree and nearly as tall. There was the heavy clanging of hammers and the quick buzz of ratchet drills and the deep percussive thuds of the machines that pounded and shaped centimeter thick steel plate. There was the grating bell that rang each hour, marking shift changes for different work squads. There was the hiss of the smelting ovens and the irregular screams of workers being punished. 

It was never quiet. 

The factory floor was big enough that it did not make sense to walk across. Trolleys and carts wove through the maze at high speed, ferrying engineers, guards, work details and equipment from one workstation to another. After the first time the workers were prodded into the space, they did not bother to look up at the bright lights or marvel at twisting pipes or the sheer size of the storage tanks. The guards were armed with clubs that emitted an arcing blue energy when they came into contact with the worker’s back. It did not take more than a strike or two to get the workers to forget their wonder and devious schemes and focus on the task at hand. 

The laborers and guards worked in shifts around the clock. Six hours on, six hours off. Schmidt had wanted to them to be on for eight hours and then be permitted four hours rest, but Zola had prevailed. Exhausted workers made poor products, he had argued, and at this late stage in the war, with the number of setbacks they had had in recent months, they could ill afford poor products. 

Truth be told, the workers made Zola ill. The way they lumbered across the floor, shrinking from the guards. Their hollowed out, bruised eyes that looked at him blankly. The way they wasted away to skin and bone before they were carted off to a concentration camp. He had tried to argue with Schmidt that more humane treatment and better food would produce a better product. Schmidt had looked at him and said, “Doctor, we barely have enough to feed our own men. If they get weak, replace them. There are always more workers.” 

Schmidt’s words echoed in Zola’s mind as he stood on a walkway and looked down at a team of two or three dozen prisoners crating tera-joule power supplies. As he watched, Zola loosened his tie and wiped the sweat from his bald head. Not far from this station, other workers were smelting the recent batch of copper ore. The walkway above the factory floor was stifling. 

These workers were near their end. They tottered about in pairs with barely enough strength to swing a hammer. Each one was dressed in the tattered remnants of an Allied uniform. Their jackets and insignia had been taken away, but the pants and undergarments marked the men as French, American, English and Russian with the odd Pole or Greek thrown in. Zola fought down his revulsion as he watched them roll another power supply into its crate. 

The power supplies were large disks, over a meter in diameter and about a meter thick. They were charged with tesseract energy and could be used as batteries to charge small devices such as the guns or the stun batons that the guards were carrying. Once the crate had been fit around the power supply, another team painted stencils onto the wood. One warned: **Danger, High Voltage!** Another said: **This way up** with an arrow. One-by-one the power supplies were encased and lifted by crane onto the flatbed of a trolley that was waiting. 

Zola checked his watch. The train must be loaded in the next two hours. Watching them work, he did not think they would be ready. Even though it made him nauseous to do it, he called to one of the guards below. “Gefreiter Werner.” 

The guard looked up. “Sir?”

“The workers,” Zola said. “They go too slow.”

The guard looked away from Zola towards the workers. Selecting one, he pulled back his arm and clocked the man across the shoulders with his club. The man screamed as the bolt of blue energy shot through him. “Faster!” the guard bellowed at him. “We must be done by mid-shift!” Other guards also found slow moving targets. 

Zola looked away as the guard struck the worker. Forcing his eyes back down to the factory floor, he made himself watch for a few minutes more, long enough to satisfy himself that the work would be done on time. With relief, he turned away and made his way along the walkway towards his lab, ticking through the timetable in his mind. The train would leave at ten. Nineteen hours to headquarters. That would leave two and a half days to assemble the chase jets. Still possible, though just barely. And, it would only be possible only because the workers at Headquarters were loyal and intelligent agents who would complete the work quickly. They were not like the workers they had here. He wished he could make Schmidt understand the importance this but Schmidt did not care. Loyalty, Schmidt said, took too much time. Fear is faster. 

Walking into his lab, Zola remembered once more why he did not like the Greek base. The base was isolated. It was hot and stifling. The Mediterranean sun was too intense for his eyes and the food always had lamb in it. He could have put up with all of that if his lab was not such a disappointment. The walls were thin and the incessant rumble and squeals of the factory floor filtered their way through to the space that should be his sanctuary. Despite the fact that the factory floor was vast, his lab space was small. One could not work out big designs, designs that would change the world, in a room that was barely big enough for his drafting table and workbench. 

Of course, after Krieschberg, anything would be a disappointment. At Krieschberg he had begun to take his designs to the next level, to create weapons that were human and machine blurred together as opposed to a gun or a suit that could be taken off. With a sigh, he wondered if he would ever get to see the experiment through. His first subject was such a disappointment and he had not had time to start a third. Idly, he opened the folder of surveillance photos he had left on his desk and scattered them across the surface. The photos were pictures of his second subject as he participated in the attack on the Hydra factory in Poland. As much as losing that factory had been a devastating loss for Hydra, it was hard not to take a little pride in his work. Anyone could design bombs, but a weapon that cut with the precision of a scalpel? That took skill. 

The click of Schmidt’s mirror-shined black leather boots on the tiled floor interrupted his thoughts. He pressed his hand against the desk, turning his fingers white. What was Schmidt doing here? Now? The last that Zola had heard, he was off in Bavaria or something. “Dr. Zola,” Schmidt began as he strolled through the door, “I’ve known you nearly ten years and I still do not understand what you see in this unholy hour of the day.” 

Zola looked up from the desk. Ever since Krieschberg, Schmidt had abandoned the mask. The way Schmidt’s skin sunk across the bones and the bright red color disturbed Zola greatly. He often found himself looking away, wishing that Schmidt would put the mask back on. It did not bother him because it was inhuman. It bothered him because it was bad design. It was inelegant. It was monstrous.

“It is usually quiet,” Zola replied. “And I can work without interruption. But here, at the factory, it is never quiet and there is no time to think. There is always a question.” 

Schmidt looked down at the pictures that Zola had spread out on the table, laying his gloved hand flat on one that showed the escaped prisoner clutching a Hydra soldier across the chest with one arm, slicing his throat with the other.

“Are we on schedule, Herr Doctor?”

“The train will be ready to leave today. The supplies will be at headquarters by tomorrow afternoon.” 

“That does not leave us much time.” 

“It could not be helped,” Zola replied. “The last shipment of copper ore was of poor quality.” Ever since Schmidt had sent Berlin the message that Hydra no longer answered to the Furher, high quality supplies had been a problem. It did not matter how elegant Zola’s designs were if the raw materials to build them could not be found. Now, Zola found himself back-engineering solutions to poor quality components. It was distressing to produce such jerry-built devices.

Schmidt nodded, pushing aside the top photo and picking up the one beneath it. This photo was taken from the ground looking up at the guard tower. It showed the subject with a sniper rifle resting on the wall. The body of a Hydra soldier was draped over the wall next to the rifle. 

“So long as the chase planes are ready for the launch,” Schmidt said. 

Zola stared at the picture that Schmidt was holding. “I do not understand the importance of the timetable,” he said. “Surely another day or two would not matter.” 

Schmidt dropped the photograph back on the table and looked at Zola with a tight frown. The crimson skin between his eyebrows wrinkled. “Your little experiment does us much damage,” he said. “Time is running out. We must make our move now, before Captain America or Hitler forces our hand. Victory, Dr. Zola, is close, but only if we do not squander it with more foolish mistakes or experiments allowed to go rogue.” 

“The interruption of the experiment…” 

“It should never have been allowed escape Krieschberg, Dr. Zola. Like the rest of our work there, you should have seen to it that it was destroyed.”

Zola stared at Schmidt. The rest of the work at Krieschberg had not been experiments. It had been weapons in various stages of production. Weapons could always be built again. To destroy experiments, to destroy data, that went against something deep in Zola’s being. 

Schmidt looked back down at the photographs. Zola watched as he picked up a third photograph of the subject, one showing him running across the frozen ground, the rest of his team around him. Schmidt continued talking as he studied the photograph. “Now, your so-called scalpel cuts us, while your dull-witted Semitic abomination fails to deliver.” Schmidt looked up, meeting Zola’s eyes. “One might think, Doctor, that it is you who is out to sabotage us. That, when you went to your lab to gather your notes and you left him incomplete and still breathing, you intended this to happen.”

Zola’s eyes widened and he took an involuntary step backwards. The knot of horror at destroying the data turned into a twisting panic. Schmidt was becoming frighteningly erratic. 

Stammering, Zola said, “No, no! It was an oversight, nothing more. The factory was exploding around us.” 

Abruptly as the paranoia gripped Schmidt, it receded. Dropping the photograph back on the desk, Schmidt nodded, the crimson head bobbing up and down. “Of course,” he said pleasantly. “The train will leave on time today?” 

Zola stared at him, his heart still pounding in his chest. His voice shook as he replied, “Yes, yes of course. I will meet you at headquarters tomorrow.” 

With a curt bob of his head, Schmidt said “See to it, Doctor. See to it.” Schmidt turned and walked out the door, his shoes clicking down the hallway. 

When he was gone, Zola let out an explosive breath, his hands falling to his desk. Schmidt scared the daylights out of him. Slowly his heart rate returned to normal and he looked around the lab. His eyes settled on the drafting board. He would need the plans for the new helicopter design and the notes about his rogue experiment. The rest he could leave behind. He’d be back here soon enough. 

Standing, he pressed the intercom button on his phone. “Sir?” came the tinny reply. 

“Send for the first subje...er, send for Sergeant Zimmerman,” he ordered.


	2. The Train

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "HYDRA was founded on the belief that humanity could not be trusted with its own freedom. What we did not realize is that if you try to take that freedom, they resist. The war taught us much. Humanity needed to surrender its freedom willingly."  
>  _-Arnim Zola_

There was one thing to be said for tesseract powered trains: they were a smooth ride. Quiet too, with none of the rattle and roar of a coal engine. 

Zola sat comfortably in the control room of the train, watching the azure blue of the Adriatic Sea slide by. The control room was sleek and new and, despite the pettiness of it all, Zola was inordinately proud with the way this train had come together. Hauptfeldwebel Brandt, the train’s driver, sat in a chair that could twist from side to side. The train’s controls wrapped around him, grouped by function, color-coded by importance. Brandt’s hands rested lightly on the throttle as his eyes scanned the track ahead. Even the throttle, the way the bar curved and fit exactly in Brandt’s hand, attracted Zola’s attention. The whole scene was lit with muted the blue glow of the tesseract powered motor and yellow light from the skylight. It was a pleasing combination, easy on the eyes. _This,_ Zola thought, _is good design._ This is what happened when one had time for a project to be done right. This is what happened with good materials. 

A chime rang and Zola turned his attention back to Hauptfeldwebel Brandt and the control panel. Brandt did not seem at all concerned. Causally, he flipped a several switches. 

“What was that?” Zola asked. 

Brandt looked over at him and then back to the controls. “The transformer is running slightly hot. I increased the coolant.” 

In his mind, Zola saw the plans, the circuit that measured the temperature looping into an alarm, the transformer, pulsing and blue-hot, its surface covered in the lacy filigree of the heat exchangers. Ammoniated oil was pumped through a network of capillary tubes on the surface out to air-cooled radiators on the outside of the train. The radiators were probably glowing red-hot at the moment. He remembered testing the transformer. They had tried immersion cooling, submerging the whole transformer into a bath of oil, but when the system had been run under load, it exploded in a tremendous burst of purple flames that had taken hours to subdue. No, the filigree was less efficient, but the risks were also so much less. 

Zola nodded to Brandt. Now that his attention was on the soldier, he studied the young man. After a dozen years of working for the German military, he was used to being surrounded by non-commissioned officers. They were, he found, distressingly alike. The uniforms did little to alleviate the problems he had telling them apart. 

“I see,” Zola replied, watching the soldier work, his hands expertly managing the controls. Watching others use his inventions always made him feel oddly detached. He understood every little detail about how they worked, but he himself could only use them in the most rudimentary of fashions. After a few minutes, he asked, “What was your training like, to operate the train?” 

Brandt looked at him for an instant before turning back to the controls. “I was drafted into the army about three years ago. After basic I was sent to advanced training in transports. I learned to drive conventional trains as well as trucks. When I joined Hydra, I was selected to be one of the drivers for this train. Rittmeister Koch trained me. First on simulators and then, when the prototype was done, we started working on that.”

“Koch was the project manager,” Zola recalled. “After the design was done, he built the train. He was remarkably competent.” 

Brandt smiled grimly at that. “That’s a kind way of putting it, sir.” 

“What do you mean?”

Brandt glanced back at Zola again, the smile gone from his face. His fingers whitened on the throttle. “He had very precise standards and he made sure we knew them,” he said. 

“As it should be.” 

Zola looked away from the train driver and back at he view screen that showed him the scene outside the train. The sea was no longer visible. They were rolling along past endless brown fields, winter fallow. The brown was patched with white where snow had collected into hollows and low spots. After a few minutes, without looking back at the driver, he said, “Tell me, Hauptfeldwebel, why did you join Hydra?” 

Brandt did not look at him. After a minute he asked, “Do you have any brothers, sir? Or sisters?” 

Surprised, Zola sat back in his chair, looking back at the train driver. Brandt’s face was carved from stone – impassive and unreadable. He shook his head. “No,” he replied. 

Brandt nodded without taking his eyes off the controls. “I did. A younger brother named Arnold. Arnold was…different. He was not very smart and he talked funny, but he followed me around like a puppy. He was the nicest kid. Never hurt anyone.” 

“The SS took him?” Zola asked. 

Brandt shook his head. “That would have been kinder. The SA came.” he said. “I had been in the army for over a year at that point. My mother tried to hide him but,” he shook his head. “They found him anyway. They pulled him out of the house and killed him on the street. They cut his throat right in front of my mother.” Brandt’s fingers clenched around the controls. “I considered deserting after that, but Hydra offered me another option.” 

Zola leaned back in his chair, staring out the window. He thought of Schmidt, of the fanaticism of his troops and he wondered, what choice brought them to Hydra? Why did they desert the Nazi’s and come to his side? How common was this story? Revenge could be a powerful motive. What other motives did the troops have?

Zola’s thoughts were interrupted by the radio crackling to life. “Dispatch to 7117” a woman’s voice said. “How are you doing my brown haired beauty?” 

Startled, Zola stared at the speaker. “Excuse me?” 

Brandt rolled his eyes as he picked up the microphone. “That’s Leona,” he explained. “Hydra dispatch. She's always like that.” He toggled the switch on the mic and said, “7117 to dispatch. Dr. Zola is in the control booth.” 

“Oh!” the woman said in reply. “I am talking to a celebrity! Tell me my incandescent kitten, do the glasses make him look bug-eyed in person, too?” 

“Leona!” Brandt admonished. 

The woman’s laugh was like a waterfall, cascading down the octaves. 

“Dispatch, this is 7117,” Brandt said, his voice taking on a testy edge. “What is the message?” 

Leona sighed. “Traffic, 7117. Ahead are SS trains 8616 and 2415 headed to Mauthausen. Also, a civilian grain transport is moving onto a spur track while the military traffic passes through. Reduce speed to 30 until clear.”

Brandt eased back on the throttle. “Acknowledged dispatch. 7117 out.” 

Zola frowned. “But we have to be to headquarters in ten hours!” he protested. 

Brandt shook his head. “Sorry, sir. Dispatch will let us know when we can open it up again.” 

“Those trains will have to get out of the way!” 

“The civilian train will, but the SS trains? Challenge them and we will have a hundred SS crawling through this train. Is that what you want?” 

Zola blinked. “No,” he said quickly. 

Brandt nodded, turning back to the controls. 

After a minute, Zola asked, “Is dispatch always so…” 

Brandt chuckled. “Yeah. She does that with all the drivers. I hear she is like eighty years old.” 

“You have never met her?” 

Brandt shook his head. “Nope. I think she is up in Berlin. There is some sort of central train dispatch there. I actually met her, well radioed with her, before I was in Hydra. She is a double agent or something. Rumor has it that she is General Schmidt’s aunt.” 

Zola nodded thoughtfully. He had never thought about the system that controlled the trains. Of course, Hydra may have parted ways with the Nazis, but they still shared the same train tracks. Fascinating. 

“I am going to go check on the cargo,” Zola said to Brandt. “Inform me when we are past the traffic?” 

“Yes sir.” 

Zola stood, taking a moment to get his balance in the gentle rocking of the train. He slid open the door between the cars and walked into the first car, running his hands along the crated supplies as he made his way through it, checking to be sure the straps were secure. 

Bug-eyed? He supposed that was accurate, but what really had him puzzled was that his image was so well known that some Hydra operative whom he had never met knew who he was. Schmidt, sure. But him? He did not know what he thought of that, whether he was pleased or annoyed. 

About halfway down the train, he heard Sergeant Zimmerman before he saw him. Sergeant Zimmerman, his first subject, was in the exoskeleton suit and the servos make a high-pitched hum before each thudding step. Zola stepped out from behind a stack of crates. Zimmerman initially reacted offensively as he had been conditioned – Zola could hear the weapons begin to power up - but just as quickly, they powered back down and Zimmerman reached up to his face to press a button that caused the mask to slide off his face. 

“Sorry, sir,” he said, speaking in English. Imprinting a language had proven to be a lot more complicated than imprinting obedience. “I was not expecting you.” He would have preferred the programming to run deeper, that the moments in the mission that did not match the outline would not cause the disruption, and in some cases, out and out questioning. Unfortunately, Reinhart’s methods were incomplete. Instead of getting a weapon that was intelligent and flexible, Reinhart’s conditioning left them dull and compliance driven. 

Zola, who had learned English as a child, responded in kind. “I needed to stretch my legs,” he replied. 

“Of course, sir.” 

“Anything to report?” 

Zimmerman shook his head. “No sir.” 

“Have you checked in with the troops in the rear?” 

“Twenty minutes ago, sir. They report no problems.”

“Very good. And the suit?” 

“It performs well, sir. The upgrades you made to the legs make it much easier to maneuver.” 

Zola nodded. “That is good to know.” 

Zimmerman hesitated and then added, “Sir, can you take a look at this arm?” he held out the left arm. “Something is not right.” 

“Sure,” Zola said, sitting on a crate and pulling a screwdriver out of a pocket in his coat. “Didn’t I fix this once?”

Zimmerman stood sideways so Zola could flip open the access panel. “No sir. You adjusted the right arm, not the left.” 

“Ah. And did that do the trick?”

“Yes sir.”

“The left arm was functioning when we corrected the right?”

“Yes sir.” 

“Huh,” Zola replied, poking at the glowing blue circuitry. “I wonder why that is?” He did not expect an answer, nor did Zimmerman give it to him. After a few minutes, Zola found where the calibration of the fine motor controls had drifted. That should not keep happening. There was a limit on what he could do here, in the field, but he made a temporary fix, adjusting the flexor set screws. He asked, “How’s this?” 

Zimmerman curled his fingers into a fist and then opened them. “Much better, sir.” 

Zola nodded. “When we get to HQ, bring the suit to my lab. The calibration should not drift like that.” 

“Yes sir.” 

Zola snapped the access panel closed and tucked the screwdriver away again. As he stood, he realized that the train was rocking back and forth with a shorter period than before. “We must be past the traffic,” he commented. 

“Sir?” Zimmerman asked. 

“Nothing Sergeant. I am going back up front. Continue your patrols.”

“Yes sir.” 

As Zola walked back to the front, he checked his watch. That delay had taken longer than it should have. He thought of Schmidt standing in HQ’s train yard, tapping his watch, his terrible red countenance glowering. When he steps out of the train, Schmidt will say, “You are late, doctor. Late!” Absently, Zola wiped his hands on his pants before sliding open the door to the control room. 

Brandt looked up at Zola as he entered. “Are you okay sir?”

Zola glared at Brandt. Why was the man asking him that? Of course he was okay. “You were supposed to call me,” he reprimanded the train driver. 

“I was about to, sir, but I saw you were on your way back.” Brandt gestured at the screen that was set to the car he had just passed through. 

“When will we arrive?” Zola asked.

“Six hours.” 

Zola looked at his watch. Over an hour late. “Can we go any faster?” 

Brandt looked skeptically at the readouts. “Track’s rated for one fifty, but that will redline the engines.” 

“Can you keep it just below the redline?”

Brandt’s eyes narrowed. “I can try,” he said slowly, “but I’ll need clearance from dispatch. Going that fast, it will take five kilometers or so to stop this baby. There’s no spurs for the next eighty-odd kilometers so we need clear track.” 

Zola nodded. “Do it.”

Clicking the mic on, Brandt said, “Dispatch, this is 7117. Requesting clearance to increase speed to ninety percent.” 

“Dispatch to 7117. Aww, you in a hurry to see me, my brown haired beauty?” Leona said. 

“Always, my tawny lion,” Brandt replied. 

“Aren’t you the sweetest!” 

Zola glared at Brandt and Brandt said, speaking in a clipped professional tone, “Are we clear, dispatch?” 

With an exasperated sigh, Leona replied, “Track is clear through the Q87 marker, 7117. Check back at Q80 for clearance on the next section of track.” 

“Acknowledged dispatch. 7117 out.” Brandt clicked the mic off and glanced over at Zola. “You might want to sit down, sir.”

Zola sat. 

Brandt flipped a dozen switches and then put his hand on the throttle. “I’ve been wanting to try this…” he said with a grin, pushing the bar forward. 

Zola was no stranger to vehicles that accelerated abruptly, but this train was totally unlike the copter, or the car, or any of his other creations. He was pressed back in his seat smoothly, like a giant hand was pressing on his chest, but other than that there was no sense of motion. He suddenly weighed twice what he normally did. He lifted his hand to the monitor to flick it to the outside view and was amazed at how heavy it seemed. The rate at which the world was zipping by was dizzying. 

The acceleration faded and he was back to his normal weight, but the world continued to fly by outside as the train snaked its way around and up and around the side of mountains. 

“Just how fast are we going?” he asked. 

Brandt glanced down at the controls. “One thirty,” he said. 

Zola flipped the monitor back to the outside view. The fields had given way to rolling hills. Ahead, he could see a snow covered pass and the curving scar on the side of the mountains where the track clung to the rocks, precipitously high above a river that ran far below. 

An hour passed. Brandt slowed the train to check in and then he was given clearance to speed back up. By this time the train was high up the side of the mountain and a steep ravine dropped off to the train’s right. In the cold alpine air they could run the train even faster because the heat exchangers were more efficient. 

A red light started blinking on the control panel. “What’s that? Are the engines alright?” 

Brandt glanced at it and frowned. “That’s a security breach alarm.” 

“Out here?” 

Brandt shrugged. “Maybe one of the soldiers tripped it? Maybe the door jiggled open?”

“Doors I design do not ‘jiggle’, Hauptfeldwebel.” Zola said stiffly. 

Brandt looked back at the controls. “Of course, sir.” 

Zola toggled switches to change the view on the screen. First car. Nothing. Second car. Nothing. The third car showed Zimmerman moving towards the rear. Fourth car. His eyes widened. Captain America. And his second subject, Sergeant Barnes! Who else would it be? Who else could it be? Was there no way to get away from Captain America and his band of sidekicks? 

Abruptly, Barnes slid the door shut between the third and fourth cars, separating himself from Captain America. Eyes widening, Zola felt a brief surge of hope. Soldiers poured through the back of the car towards Barnes. Was he surrendering? Could it be? There was had been no indication that he would come back willingly before now. 

But no. Barnes leveled his gun on the soldiers, killing the first one. 

Zola flipped the screen to the third car to watch Zimmerman and Captain America. Sucking his lip between his teeth, Zola bit down. Here was a test like no other. Schmidt had not allowed him to put Zimmerman in combat despite his pleas. _Why, doctor,_ Schmidt had said, _did you choose a Semite?_ There had been no reason. Zola had not even realized he had a Jew when he pulled the man out of the cages at Krieschberg. He was big and strong and Zola thought he would survive the treatment. 

Now, watching him face Captain America, he wondered. Would the conditioning hold? Would facing an American break through? Did Zimmerman know Sergeant Barnes? Or maybe Captain America? Could that affect his performance? Or, as Schmidt had argued, when put in combat, would the Semite cowardice win out? 

So far, it seemed good. Zimmerman was powering up his guns, facing down Captain America.

Zola flipped the switch for the intercom. “Stop him!” he ordered in English. 

Zimmerman fired on Captain America and missed. “Fire again!” Zola said, his voice becoming higher pitched and shrill. A crackling bolt of blue lightning arched out of Zimmerman’s gun and rebounded off Captain America’s shield. 

Captain America charged towards Zimmerman. He leapt up and grabbed a cargo hook that was on a track in the ceiling. Captain America glided the full length of the train car. Zimmerman stood his ground and fired again, missing the moving target.

Zimmerman’s weapon was still recharging when Captain America plowed into him, knocking him over. How was that possible? The exoskeleton had the mass of five men! On the control panel, several more warning lights lit up. Zola’s stomach sank and he felt a surge of terror at the thought that maybe his forces would not be enough. Schmidt’s voice echoed in the back of his head _our forces are outmatched, Herr Doctor._ The exoskeleton project was supposed to turn the tide! Loyal, ruthless, unstoppable. How was it that a single soldier could best his work? 

Zimmerman was flat on his back, unmoving. He had gotten one of Zola’s early attempts at the serum and it was not as good as what Barnes had been given which, Zola suspected, was just a shadow of Erskine’s work. As Zola watched, Captain America grabbed Zimmerman’s gun and fired at the door separating the third and fourth cars. 

Zola flipped back to the camera on the fourth car and frowned. Dark uniformed men were strewn around on the floor. He could not tell if his second subject was one of them or if they were all Hydra agents. 

“Hauptfeldwebel,” Zola said. 

“Sir?” Brandt said. 

“We are under attack.” 

“Yes sir,” Brandt said, his voice tense and thin. 

“It does not go well for our troops.” 

“No sir.” 

Captain America had his back to the door and he was not visible on the camera for the fourth car, but Zola could see him toss a pistol to someone behind a pile of crates. Ah, the subject must still be alive. Maybe he could still salvage this mess. 

Another Hydra soldier, probably the last, emerged from the door at the far end of the fourth car. At first it did not seem that Barnes and Captain America noticed him. Suddenly, Captain America slammed a crate into the man’s chest and Barnes fired. The Hydra soldier went down. 

Flipping back to the third car, he saw that Zimmerman was up and headed towards the two of them. Maybe, just maybe… 

Zimmerman leveled his gun to fire at Captain America’s back. Captain America spun, shoving Barnes behind himself. The blast hit the shield, ricocheting out the door. The shield went flying. This may be the moment to kill Captain America! 

Zola grabbed the mic and shouted, “Fire again! Kill him now!” He did not realize until the words were out of his mouth that there were two targets and that Zimmerman would not know whom he meant. Kill Captain America. Take the other one captive. 

Barnes picked up the shield and advanced on Zimmerman, firing as he went. _Such courage!_ Zola thought. What a splendid victory would be theirs when he had an army of such men! Zimmerman was adequate, but the thought of Barnes operating the exoskeleton was intoxicating. 

Zimmerman fired. The blue blast hit the side of the car creating a gaping hole in the wall. Zola stared at the screen. Through the hole, Zola could see the side of a mountain on the far side of the ravine. The camera did not show nearly enough. Zimmerman was down again. He saw Captain America strip his helmet from his head and toss it aside. Where was his subject? He watched as Captain America flung himself out the hole. For an interminable ten seconds during which he could not even think, all he saw was Captain America’s glove gripping a pipe as he dangled out of the speeding train. His eyes were glued to that glove, willing it to slip, to fall from the train. More than anything, Captain America’s death would be something to report to Schmidt. 

But then Captain America pulled himself back into the train, slumped and defeated and it occurred to Zola what must have happened. He flipped through the cameras one more time, but there was no sign of Barnes. Barnes must have fallen from the train. 

He stared at the screen showing the mountain outside of the train. The ravine was at least five hundred meters deep. Maybe more. He did not even register it when Captain America picked up a handgun and emptied the clip into the downed Zimmerman. Maybe the enhanced serum would be enough to save his second subject. Maybe the fall did not kill him. Maybe…

He grabbed the mic, “Dispatch, dispatch are you there?” he shouted into it. 

Brandt grabbed at it, “What are you doing?” he demanded. “You have to…” 

But Leona’s voice came over the speaker, “And to whom am I speaking to? My lovely fire Brandt? Is that you burning bright?” 

Zola shoved Brandt’s hand away as Brandt tried to grab the mic from him. “No, no! This is Doctor Zola. Listen to me. A man has fallen from the train near…” he looked at Brandt, “Where are we?” he asked the train driver. 

Brandt gave him the marker. “Z59.”

“Near Z59,” Zola repeated into the mike. “Listen carefully. It is imperative that you dispatch Hydra troops to retrieve this man. Immediately. Keep him in custody.” 

“Uh,” Leona said. “Don’t the tracks wind their way along a mile high cliff?” 

“He might be alive! Now, dispatch! Now!” 

Leona’s reply was drowned out by the sound of crashing glass. 

Startled, Zola jumped up, backpedalling away from…from…He collided with Brandt. 

Zola stared at the Howling Commando standing a foot away with a gun pointed at his chest. He had seen this man, the negro, in the surveillance photos, but knew nothing about him. 

“Stop the train!” the Howling Commando ordered, speaking in accented German. 

Zola was staring at the gun, his heart pounding and he lifted his hands.

“Sir?” asked Brandt. 

“Do it,” Zola said, his voice strained. 

“Hail Hydra,” Brandt replied. 

Zola felt his body sway as the train slowed. Swallowing hard, his tongue brushed against his teeth and he realized what Brandt was about to do. It occurred to him that he would be the only Hydra agent left alive on the train. 

“You’re Doctor Zola,” the Howling Commando said. 

“Yes,” Zola replied. Behind him, he felt the convulsions hit Brandt’s body. 

“Goddammit!” the Commando swore. He stepped forward and Zola was crowded against the dying body of Brandt. “Open your mouth!” he ordered. The gun’s muzzle was pressed against Zola’s chest and his heart was pounding so hard he imagined it colliding with the gun. He opened his mouth wide and shook his head. “No cyanide!” he squeaked. “Please! I surrender!” 

The commando pressed Zola against the wall, choking him with a forearm crushed across his throat. He kept his mouth open and the Commando shone a light in it. Abruptly, the commando pushed himself back to standing and Zola regained his footing. “Cap!” he bellowed. “I got him!” 

Zola shifted his weight, his arms shaking with the effort of holding them up. The irony of the situation, of not committing suicide only to be shot made a nervous giggle bubble up and escape his mouth.

The Commando glared at him as Captain America burst through the door, surveying the scene. Zola met Captain America’s eyes and the terrified hilarity was gone. He swallowed hard, remembering the last time he looked at Captain America in the flesh. The Krieschberg factory had been exploding around them. 

“Call for extraction, Private.” Captain America said to the Commando. 

“Move over!” the Commando ordered and Zola staggered to the side. Brandt’s mouth was covered with saliva and his head lolled to the side. The Commando grabbed Brandt by the collar pulled him out of the chair, letting him slide to the floor in heap. 

Climbing over the body, the commando scanned the control panel and started adjusting dials, changing the frequency of the radio. “Morita, Morita, it’s Jones. Morita come in.” 

The Commando, Jones, waited for a reply. In the silence, Jones looked over at Captain America. “Is Sarge with the prisoners?” he asked. Zola looked at Captain America. The American’s face was hard and without expression. He shook his head, but Jones didn’t see it because the radio crackled to life and he turned back to it, “Gabe! Good to hear your voice!” came the voice from the radio. 

“Zola is secured, ready for extraction,” Jones said. 

“The Hoverfly is on its way,” came the reply.

“Thanks, Ace. Jones out.” As Jones clicked off the mic, he turned back to Captain America. “Where’s Sarge, Cap?” 

As Zola watched, Captain America met Jones’s eyes and slowly shook his head. 

Jones’s eyes widened. “Oh, god!” 

Abruptly, Zola found himself spun around and slammed against a wall. The side of his face pressed against a readout for something. Pressure, possibly. “You stinking bastard!” Jones shouted at him, shaking him, 

Zola clenched his fists. “I didn’t!” he exclaimed. “I did do anything! I just design the weapons, I don’t fight with them!” 

“Do you think that matters?” 

Behind him, Zola heard Cap say, “Gabe.” 

Abruptly the hands were off him. Shaking, he turned back around and he looked between the two of them. They were looking at each other. 

“Cap,” Jones said, stepping back and looking at Zola. He leveled his gun on Zola’s chest. “Move and you die,” he growled.


	3. The 107th

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "The worst thing you can do right now is underestimate Hydra. They hide in plain sight; they earn our trust, our sympathy. They make us like them, and when you hesitate, they strike."  
>  _\- Victoria Hand_

The helicopter was called a Hoverfly. He recognized it, of course. He had studied the plans back when the craft was first developed. Compared to his designs, it was boxy, crude, loud and it vibrated fiercely. 

The helicopter hovered over the train. A tremendous rush of noise and wind came through the broken skylight and papers he did not remember bringing into the room went flying. A rope dropped through the hole. Zola stared at it and a sour taste flooded his mouth. He tried to step back, but his back was hard against the wall. “Time to go,” Captain America said. Jones moved almost comically slowly across the control room and grabbed his lapels. Suddenly everything was moving fast. He was dragged towards the rope. 

Captain America had his hands on him. Even if there had been anywhere to run, Zola could not have broken his grasp. It was like iron bands on his shoulders. Jones threaded a rope under his arms and knotted it across his chest. The rope was so tight it hurt to breath.

Captain America gave the rope a tug and he found himself being lifted through the skylight and out of the train. Suddenly he was grateful for the rope even if it dug into his back and armpits and chest. The pain was not the worst of it. The worst of it was that the wind swung him back and forth, over the train, over the ravine, over the train, over the ravine. He clung to the rope so tightly it made his hands ache. It seemed to him that someone had once told him to look up when in high places, never down. It was impossible. He found himself staring into the abyss. His subject may have survived the plummet, but he was under no illusions that he would. 

Then there were hands on him from above. Two other Commandoes – the one with the bowler hat and the little munitions expert who had caused such havoc at the factory in Poland – hauled him into the cabin of the helicopter. The little one undid the rope and the big one lifted him bodily to his feet and shoved him onto a bench. The little one picked up a rifle and held it on him while bowler hat went back to the door to toss out a rope ladder. Seconds later, bowler hat was grabbing Jones’s hand as he swarmed into the helicopter, followed by Captain America. 

“Let’s go, Major!” Captain America bellowed once his feet were on the deck. 

“Cap?” the pilot shouted back.

“Where’s Sarge?” bowler hat bellowed. 

Jones shook his head. “He’s gone,” he shouted. “Monty, get us out of here!” 

“He fell from the train,” Captain America said. 

Zola was watching the little one who was still holding a gun on him. He saw the man’s hand tighten on the rifle. He was not man who prayed, but he found himself praying it would not go off by mistake.

The man in the bowler hat’s face went blank. “He’s dead?” 

“Yeah,” Jones replied. 

Zola’s eyes flitted from one to the other. He gripped the bench, his fingers turning white and aching, as the helicopter started to move. 

Bowler hat looked at Captain America and then turned on Zola, growling as he advanced but Captain America put a hand on his shoulder. “Dum Dum,” he said. “Stop.” 

“But this son of a bitch piece of Nazi trash…” 

“The mission was to capture Zola. We need the intel,” Captain America said, leaning over to shout in his ear. “Bucky died covering my back.” 

Bowler hat stepped back and sat on the bench facing Zola. His gun joined the rifle of the munitions expert pointed at Zola’s chest. Zola’s jaw and grip tightened until his teeth ached and his fingers were numb. 

It seemed like hours later, but it couldn’t have been that long because the range of the Hoverfly was only a couple hundred kilometers. The helicopter set down on a stubbly field with brown grass protruding from a few inches of snow. The Commandoes surrounded him and he was hustled onto a plane and buckled into a seat. Minutes later, the plane took off. 

The six remaining Howling Commandos sat a few rows in front of him. He recognized them from the surveillance photos. Bowler hat, the munitions expert, the negro named Jones, the Brit with the paratrooper’s insignia and the Jap. Captain America sat by himself, one seat separated from the others. They were silent and stony faced. 

Sometime into the flight, it occurred to him that the arrival time of the train at HQ had come and gone. He leaned back in the chair and looked up at the painted metal ceiling, wondering what Schmidt’s reaction would be. Furor? Rage? Anger at the interruption to his plans? When more time passed and he still didn’t arrive? How long would it take before Schmidt went looking for him? Would he be searching for him or for the train of supplies? Would Schmidt even bother or would he just plow on? Even without the chase planes, the Valkyrie would cause considerable damage. 

He took a deep breath and let it out, looking back at the Commandoes. They had swapped their seats around. Jones was talking quietly with the bowler hat and the Jap. The munitions expert was asleep. Captain America was talking to paratrooper who had flown the helicopter. Clearly, they did not intend to kill him. Not yet, anyway. He was valuable. He swallowed and stared at his legs. He was an asset. 

His hands closed on the armrest of the seat and he found himself wondering about his subject. Terminal velocity for a human body was about sixty meters per second, if he was remembering correctly. Bone broke between one and ten megapascals. The subject was probably on the high end of that, but for the sake of argument, he stuck with the low number. Assuming that his cross sectional area was around a square meter and his mass was around a hundred kilograms, that meant he would need to fall in just…1.8 meters of snow. Possible…but what was the drag coefficient for snow? Could it generate twelve hundred g’s of acceleration? That did not seem reasonable. What if he had landed on a slope instead of flat ground? What would that much acceleration do to his skin?

Lost in calculations, the rest of flight passed quickly. He tried to construct a sequence that would result in his subject not being completely crushed in the fall. Best case scenario: he hit something before he hit the bottom. But, and it was a huge but, that collision had to be particular. If the collision scrubbed off too much speed the initial impact would kill him. 

Zola was thrown forward into the safety straps as the plane landed. The commandoes silently gathered their weapons as the plane taxied to a stop. The door opened and a troop of American military police poured in. The military police surrounded him. Their hands were all over him, taking off the straps, dragging him to his feet and all but carrying him from the plane. It happened so fast he did not even have time to muster enough indignation to protest.

He was taken to a truck and shoved in the back with three of the police. The truck drove for a few minutes and before it stopped and they let him out in the courtyard of a brick building. They hustled him into the building, through a maze of corridors. There were doors and they were labeled in English with words like “Records” and “Computation” and “Group seventy-eight”. He wound up in a room where he was searched. They took his coat and tie. They pulled his belt from its loops. They made him turn his pockets out and took everything he had in them – money, his ID cards, a fist full of keys. They even took his watch and glasses! He hated them with an anger that came from somewhere deep in his belly. He was a scientist, not a common criminal! How dare they handle him like this! But, staring at the guns in the MP's holsters, he swallowed his pride and complied. Abruptly, the memory of watching the guards manage the prisoners in the factory came back to him and his knees went weak. An MP grabbed him before he fell to the floor. 

“Are you okay?”

He regained his composure quickly. He got his feet under himself and yanked his arm from the MP’s grasp. “I am fine,” he growled. 

When they were done searching him, a guard led him out the door and down the hall. They had not returned his glasses so the hall was little more than a brown blur with doors spaced every few meters. The signs on the doors were dark patches to the side of each opening, but the words were too small for him to make out. Touching his shoulder, the guard stopped him at a door and opened it. Zola stepped inside. The guard held out his glasses and he grabbed them. The guard closed the door with a clang.

Fitting the glasses over his ears, Zola looked around the room. It was larger than he expected. A dark one-way-glass observation window was on the left beside the door and a table with two chairs were positioned in the middle of the room. It was an interrogation room, not a cell. He walked around the perimeter of the room looking at the cold, brick walls. And then he saw the stretcher. 

It was a standard military issue stretcher. Not much different than what the German army used. 

Not much different than he had had in his lab. 

He scoffed, turning away. Certainly the Americans wouldn’t use _that_ on _him._ He had information they wanted. He was valuable. 

Underneath the stretcher was a small puddle of blood. His eyes widened. Surely the Americans…

The door opened. 

He looked up. 

Zola did not recognize the man who entered. Despite a dozen years of working with the German military, he had not bothered to learn to read the insignia. He certainly could not read the American uniforms, but he doubted that enlisted men had that much shiny brass. 

The man was carrying a tray. “Sit down,” he said. 

Zola took a seat at the table and looked at the tray. Steak, broccoli, potatoes. A glass of milk. Suddenly his stomach rumbled and he realized how long it had been since he had eaten last. Ignoring his body he looked up at the officer. “What is this?” he asked. 

“Steak,” the officer replied. 

Was the food drugged? Suspiciously, he said, “What is in it?” 

“Cow.” 

Leaning back, Zola looked at the officer. The officer continued. “Doctor, do you realize what it takes to get a hold of a prime cut like that out here?” 

“I don’t eat meat,” Zola replied. It felt good to say it. Despite the fact his stomach ached, he could refuse the offer. He did not have to cooperate with them. The stretcher, the blood, that was all a show. They were trying to intimidate him. He would not let them. He was smarter than them. He straightened his back. 

“Why not?” the officer asked. 

“It disagrees with me,” Zola replied. It was the truth. Schmidt and the others had mocked his vegetarianism for years. _How can you run that brain of yours on that pig slop, Doctor?_ they had said. Indeed, during the war, especially since Hydra left the Nazi party, some of the meals he had been forced to eat were barely palatable. But still, he’d have to be truly starving to put himself through the week-long misery that meat caused his system. Hungry as he was, he was not to that point yet. 

“What about cyanide?” the officer asked. “Does that give you the rumbly tummy too?”

Zola smiled slightly before he stopped himself. 

The officer turned the tray around and cut into the meat. “Every Hydra agent we have tried to take alive has crunched a little pill before we could stop him. But not you.” The officer raised a piece of meat to his mouth. “So here is my brilliant theory,” he said. “You want to live.” 

Staring at the officer, Zola realized who this was. He was talking to Colonel Phillips, commander of the division of the US Army that was hunting Hydra. Zola thought he had appeared in surveillance with both Dr. Erskine and the Howling Commandoes. This was the man who was responsible for all the misfortunes of the last year. 

At least, that is who Zola thought he was talking to. His interest in the surveillance photos had not extended beyond his subject, but he had heard Schmidt and the generals discuss the other men frequently. He was not sure, though. Perhaps he mis-remembered. Zola tested his theory by replying, “You are trying to intimidate me, Colonel.” 

Military men were very sticky about their ranks. Surely if he got it wrong…

“I bought you dinner,” Colonel Phillips replied around a mouthful of meat, not noticing Zola’s little experiment. Phillips slid a piece of paper in front of Zola. 

Zola looked down at it. It was a letter written on US Army letterhead and signed by Phillips, so he was correct. He read, “Given the valuable information he has provided, and in exchange for his full cooperation, Dr. Zola has been remanded to Switzerland.” He looked up, startled. 

“I sent that message to Washington this morning,” Phillips said as he cut another bite of steak. “Of course it was encoded. You guys haven’t broken those codes, have you? That would be awkward.” 

Zola stared at him. Of course they had broken the codes. Months ago, within days of them being changed. And the German codes. Hydra had cracked those too. He did not bother to deny it. Phillips had intended the message to be intercepted. Grasping at the only straw left to him, he said, “Schmidt will know this is a lie.” 

“He’s gonna kill you anyway, Doc. You’re a liability. You know more about Schmidt than anyone.” Phillips was right, and Zola knew it. He had known it for a long time. At some point, Schmidt was going to kill him. His capture just brought the date forward. There would be a steady stream sleeper agents until one succeeded. It was a wonder they had not gotten to him already. 

Zola realized that Phillips was still talking, “….last guy you cost us was Captain Rogers’s closest friend, so I wouldn’t count on the very best of protection.” They really had no idea about Barnes. They had noticed nothing. “It’s you, or Schmidt, Phillips concluded. “It’s just the hand you have been dealt.” 

Zola kept his gaze on Phillips but his hands felt cold and clammy. He resisted the urge to wipe them on his pants. Phillips was not wrong. He wanted to live. He loved the thrill a new idea and the delight in getting a design to work. He was not ready to give that up yet. So long as Schmidt was alive, there would be nowhere for him in Hydra, he saw that now. For now, the cost of keeping his life was information. He quickly sorted through the options in his head. Weapon specs, those could wait. He could dole those out later. What Phillips would value now is operational information. He did not even consider offering the information about his subject. 

But where to start with Schmidt? Phillips could not possibly know the man. “Schmidt believes he walks in the footsteps of the gods,” Zola offered. 

“Huh,” Phillips said as he chewed a mouthful of potato. Zola eyed the potato. He was almost hungry enough that he considered asking for the last one but his pride had not worn that thin yet. He looked back at the Colonel, meeting his eyes. 

“Only the world itself will satisfy him,” Zola continued. As he said it, he thought of the plane waiting in the hanger of HQ with its neatly labeled bombs. He had designed the bombs when Becker’s design for the splinter bombs had failed. It was rumored that the Americans were developing a terrible bomb, a nuclear bomb. These were worse. Powered by tesseract energy, they exploded with an unparalleled force. He had argued with Schmidt about how many of these devices were needed. One, Zola had argued, dropped on the right city, would be enough. Governments would roll over at its awesome power. They would not risk the same fate for their people. No, Schmidt had shot back. Every major city has to go, Herr Doctor. 

And so Zola had made fifty-three of the bombs. 

“You do realize that’s nuts, don’t you?” Phillips said in reply. 

Of course, but it did not matter. He thought of the line of bombs, each labeled and tucked in its cradle. Phillips had no idea what he was dealing with. “The sanity of the plan is of no consequence.” 

“Why is that?” Phillips asked. 

“Because he can do it!” And in his mind, he said to himself with a mix of pride and horror. _He can do it because you gave him the tools._

“What’s his target?” Phillips asked. 

Thinking of the fifty-three bombs again, Zola said, “His target is everywhere.”


	4. Operation Paperclip

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Freedom. Equality. Individual rights. These principles make mankind a plague on this planet. Think of a forest. It dries up and catches fire with the first spark. Now, mankind would fight that fire, believing every individual plant perfect in its own individual way. But it's the fire that's perfect."  
>  _\- Daniel Whitehall_

The message, when it came, was a complete surprise. 

He had no idea that Hydra was still active. Despite being named after a mythical beast where if you cut off one head, two more grew back, Schmidt had kept a crushing dictatorial grip on the organization. His lieutenants were scientists. Zola, of course, worked with the tesseract. Reinhart was studying some artifact from South America and the Italian, Cisterna was working on something with the Australian negros. None of the seconds were leaders, not like Schmidt. They were designers of weapons that Schmidt could use to tear the world apart. Zola figured that without Schmidt’s guiding hand, Hydra’s members would go quietly back to their lives, get their cyanide tooth pulled, and chalk it all up to crazy wartime fervor. 

In retrospect, however, the message should not have been that much of a surprise. Hydra’s influence had permeated the Third Reich, and here at the Dustbin where Nazi scientists were being held while the Allies decided their fates, there had to have been others, others who were rudderless and willing to follow whomever offered them a direction. For most of the rank and file, they did not know why Hydra had failed, that Zola himself had dealt the fatal blow. 

However, Zola was not thinking clearly. In the days since the near-successful assassination attempt in London, Zola had fallen into deep melancholy. His mind turned in useless circles, replaying how he had gotten here. How had they failed? How could the failure of something so massive rest on the shoulders of one man? Hydra’s technological superiority was absolute. The assassin’s near success, marred only by blind luck, was evidence of that. Nothing the Allies had even came close to his work. The bombs the Americans had dropped on Japan had been impressive, but they were a shadow of the weapons that had gone down with Schmidt. 

His state of mind was not helped by his life in prison. He was being kept in solitary and his days were tediously monotonous. Time was only marked by the regular arrival of his meals. Each day he forced himself to sit at the desk in his cell to draw a design or write some notes, but day after day the paper remained stubbornly blank. He lost hours at a time. He’d come to himself with a numb backside, a sore back, and no recollection of the hours that had gone by. It scared him. He wondered if this is what it felt like to loose his mind. So he tried to work sums in his head or recite the periodic table, but he could not concentrate and he forgot what he was doing long before the task was done.

All of that changed one morning. His breakfast was delivered to his cell by the usual odious American private with buck-teeth and a face that was more pimples than skin. Zola took the tray over to the desk without saying a word to the boy. Slimy eggs, greasy toast, and a cold mug of the sludge they called coffee. He picked up a piece of toast, turned it over and put it back down. Disgusting. He picked up the coffee mug. 

And he found a piece of paper folded up under the mug. 

He stared at it as he set the coffee down without drinking. His hand was visibly shaking as he reached out to pick it up. His heart was thundering in his chest. His feet felt cold. 

It was hard to unfold because his hands were so unsteady. The paper was thin, almost transparent and it was soft in on his fingers. He realized what it was almost immediately. Nitrocellulose. Friction alone would cause it to burst into flame. The page was covered in typed columns of letters, in groups of five. Gibberish. 

kldim olhyc qomhl hyong zghpw  
pryvs swubd swqtb cvfer huvtk  
fjkjd hbiow bjnwc jvchb …

Codebreaking was not his specialty but he knew the basics. This was either a message that used some unknown key or it was the key to cipher that had not yet arrived. 

Excited for the first time in months, Zola set the breakfast tray on the floor and sharpened a pencil against the stone wall. He wrote out the alphabet and started with the simplest key he could think of: hailhydra. ‘h’ was the eighth letter of the alphabet, so he shifted the first letter in his message forward eight. The k became s. ‘a’ was the first letter of the alphabet so the l did not change. ‘i’ was the ninth letter so the d shifted forward to m. Hrm. ‘Slm’ did not look promising. He did a few more letters. I became u, m also became u. ‘Slmuu’ was not a word. He kept going. Perhaps the message was three or four lines down. Half an hour later, looking at a page of gibberish, he gave up on ‘hailhydra’ and tried another key. 

Hours later, he determined that nothing he could think of worked. He tried ‘hydra’. He had tried ‘johannschmidt’, ‘schmidt’, ‘redskull’, ‘tesseract’, ‘zola’…the list went on and on. 

The hope that had sustained him over the last few hours of furious activity drained away as he came to the conclusion that this was the key, a so-called one time pad. He had to wait for the actual message. However, despite his impatience, the thought that there would be an actual message was electrifying. Hydra was not dead! He was not forgotten! He carefully folded the sheet of nitrocellulose and tucked it in his pocket, resolving to not destroy it unless he was searched. Then he looked at his lunch tray (the breakfast tray had been taken away hours ago) and, for the first time in weeks, ate it all. 

Each time a meal arrived, he pounced on the tray. Then he agonized when he found nothing. Had his contact been captured? Moved? Who was he anyway? Was the true message on the sheet of nitrocellulose and he just had not found the right key, or the right place to start? He kept experimenting with different keys and different starting places, but day after day he generated pages of gibberish. 

The dull-witted private who delivered his meals was his only contact with the outside world. If he noticed the change in Zola’s attitude, he did not say anything. In another time, at another place, Zola would have had no use for such a person, but these days he had limited resources and poor material to work from. So, one day when the door opened, he smiled at the American as he took the tray. “Thank you,” he said. 

The American stared at him and backed out of the cell. 

At another meal, he noticed the name patch on the private’s shirt. It read ‘Abrams’. This time he said, “Thank you, Private Abrams.” 

The private stammered, “Uh, you’re welcome.” 

And a couple of days later, the private took the empty lunch tray from him when he came to deliver the dinner tray and noticed that it was empty. “You ate it all?” the private asked. 

Zola had tossed most of it in the privy bucket, but that had already been emptied. “Yes,” he replied. 

“Oh good,” the private replied. “I heard the brass say they might have to force feed you.”

Zola gulped, remembering one of the factories when there had been a hunger strike. The guards forced sustenance into the workers by tying them to a chair and pouring slop into a funnel shoved down their throats. It had been disgusting. It had disturbed him greatly and he made himself scarce when the procedure was performed. His knees felt unsteady and he put a hand on the wall. “I’ll remember that,” he said at last. He was not on a hunger strike. He was not refusing to eat. He just was not hungry. He had not noticed how his clothes now hung on his frame. 

It was seven meals later when the second paper arrived.

The private leaned over and whispered to him as he handed over the tray, “Look under the plate, Doctor.” 

Zola was too surprised to answer. He took the tray with shaking hands. When the door was closed, he picked up the plate and found a scrap of onionskin, barely bigger than his palm, stuck to the bottom. He stared back at the door. The American knew about the message? 

Like the nitrocellulose, the onionskin was covered in letters in groups of five, but unlike the other page, the letters were handwritten in block capitals. 

CZOLU SCYCE EJQYP KDFBS  
BNHHI WVJYA FBIVU LDIIF  
EDFPU LJVKD RNXCQ RWLKA

He felt certain that this was the message. He forgot about the private and shoved the papers on his desk aside. He took the key from his pocket and got to work. 

Unlike every other time he tried this, words that made sense began to appear almost immediately. S…o…l…d…i…e…r. At last, he had a word! 

soldierrecoveredfromchasmheldinfourthspecialdepartmentnkvd

He stared at the message. 

His subject was alive. That, in itself, was incredible. 

Like German Hydra, like the American SSR, like the Japanese Unit 731, the Fourth Special Department, otherwise known as Leviathan, did the kind of weapons development for the Soviets that no one talked about. It was part prison, part research lab, and it was known for its cadre of deadly female operatives. Formally it was part of the Soviet gulag system where perceived (and actual) dissidents were imprisoned, but unlike most of the gulag system, Fourth Special Departments were special camps for scientists, engineers and artists. In retrospect, it did not surprise him at all that Hydra scientists would have found refuge in such a place. 

He shredded the message and his translation. After a moment’s consideration, took the nitrocellulose between his fingers and rubbed it back and forth until it burst in flames. He had, at this point, memorized the key. 

Zola lay on his back on his bed and stared at the stone ceiling, wondering if he’d ever get a chance to use that information. He’d have to find something better than Reinhart’s indoctrination methods. He thought back to Zimmerman and his slow, plodding post-treatment speech. The method was too just crude for a specimen as fine as his second subject. 

Another meal arrived. Giant raindrops pounded against the tiny window in Zola’s cell. The private, when he came to the door, was wearing dry clothes but his hair was wet and stuck to his head. “Nasty out there?” Zola asked as he took the tray. 

Startled, the private nodded. “I had to help unload a truck of supplies for the kitchen.” 

“And they didn’t even give you time to dry off?”

The private flashed him an ironic smile showing his overly large, crooked teeth. “You know the army.” 

Zola nodded and, curiously he murmured, “Hail hydra,” as he took the tray. 

The private dropped the tray as if it were scalding hot into his hands and took a sudden step back, slamming the door with a clang. 

So, that was a mistake. 

Later, laying on the bed, he thought of Hydra’s failure and wondered where it went wrong. Could it be so simple as one man? Was that one man Captain America? Or himself? Or was it more complicated than that? It had to have been more complicated than that. But how? 

It was a two days before the private would talk to him again. Each meal Zola tried a polite, “Thank you,” or “How are you doing today?” and Private Abrams looked at him with panicked eyes and shut the door as fast as possible. However, on the third day, he said “You’re welcome.” The following meal Zola asked him, “Where are you from?” 

The private looked at him for a second before he answered. “Wisconsin.” 

Zola racked his memory, trying to dredge up any information he had on Wisconsin. After a moment he asked, “Have you been to the Grand Canyon?” 

The private laughed. “No. That’s like a thousand miles away. It’s hot and dry. Wisconsin is cold and snowy.” 

“Oh,” said Zola. 

Back in London when he had been spilling his guts to the SSR, they had told him of Schmidt’s and Captain America’s presumed deaths somewhere in the North Atlantic. Now that he knew that his subject had survived, Zola was not so sure they were dead. Unlike both Red Skull and Captain America, his subject that did not have Erskine’s serum, just Zola’s attempt at a copy, yet he had survived a fall from thousands of feet into an icy chasm. 

Zola began to wonder, was it even possible to kill someone treated with the serum? 

Was his first subject still alive? Captain America had shot him point blank to the head. It seemed incredible but… 

One thing was clear to him. The thought that Schmidt might still be alive terrified him more than just about anything. 

He needed more information. Could he send a message out with the private? 

At another meal, he asked the private, “What’s your name?” 

The private looked at him strangely and gestured at the name patch on his uniform. “Abrams, sir,” he replied. 

At first, Zola did not notice the change, so he said, “No, no your first name.” 

“Oh. John, sir.”

And then Zola did notice it. He looked more closely at the boy. He recognized the expression on his face. Eager to please, not noticed enough for the menial work that the army gave him to do. So, Zola decided to chance it. 

“Pleased to meet you John Abrams,” Zola said, offering his hand. “I am Arnim Zola.” 

The private laughed, not taking his hand. “I know that!” he said. “It’s written on your door, and they make your trays special, without meat.” 

Zola frowned. This was not going as he had thought it would. “I see,” he said, letting his hand fall. “That makes sense.”

The private grinned as he shoved the tray at Zola and pulled the door shut. “See you at dinner, sir.” 

Zola set the tray down on his desk and crumpled onto his bed. After a while, he opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling. His mind went back to his first conversation with Phillips, when Phillips called Schmidt’s plans mad and he had defended Schmidt, saying that the sanity of the plan did not matter. 

Was he going crazy, locked in this cell, with only that imbecile American to talk to? He thought he was reading the soldier correctly, but in one conversation, the soldier called him ‘sir’ and then laughed at him. The last time Zola had been laughed at had been before Schmidt had recruited him, before his designs almost changed the face of the planet. How dare that…

And then he stopped himself. 

He realized that the sanity of the plan did matter. An insane plan without its leader could only be followed by madmen. With Schmidt gone, the surviving madmen – Reinhart, Cisterna, and the others, would bicker and tear themselves apart in their struggles for power. They would ruin all that he had worked for. However, a plan that made sense, a sound strategy that men could rally around, is a plan that could persist. 

Interesting, in the end, how both Hitler and Schmidt made the same mistake. 

When dinner came, Private John Abrams opened the door to find Zola sitting at his desk, writing fiercely. After a moment, Zola looked up. “Ah, private,” he said. “How many scientists are kept here?” 

Blinking in surprise, Abrams answered, “Around six hundred, sir.” 

“Are they all in separate cells?” 

“Oh, no. Only about fifty of you are. Most of the rest are down in the Great Hall and the Ballroom. They have it set up as a sort of barracks.” 

Zola could not imagine what was worse. Being locked in a cell alone, or being kept in a room with 300 people. 

“I see,” said Zola. He retrieved his lunch tray from where he had left it on the floor and walked over to the private. “If I listed some names, could you tell me if they are here?” 

Private Abrams frowned as he took the tray and slotted it into the cart. “I suppose so,” he replied. “But I don’t know everyone.” 

“Could you find out for me?” 

“Uh. I am not sure, sir.” 

“Can you tell me who gave you that paper you brought me?”

The private frowned for a moment and then nodded. “I guess he won’t mind, seeing as he sent you the message.” 

“Then who is it?”

“Mr. Beckers. Vincent Beckers.”

Zola nodded thoughtfully. Vincent Beckers had been working in Reinhart’s division, studying the artifact that Reinhart was obsessed with. An obelisk, they called it. Beckers had been developing bombs with the artifact and Zola had reviewed his plans. The weapons had been promising, but underpowered. 

“I see,” Zola told the private. “What about Dr. Reinhart? Is he here?” 

Abrams shook his head. “Never heard of him.” 

The private held out the dinner tray to Zola and Zola took it. The private was about to swing the door shut when Zola asked, “Private?” 

Abrams looked at him. 

“Why did you join the army?” 

The private shrugged. “Got drafted,” he said as he pulled the door shut with a clang. “See you in the morning,” he said through the door. 

A few hours later, the door unlocked. Although the summer sun was still up, making a light patch on the wall opposite the tiny window in his cell, Zola was laying on his bed, his glasses off. He was composing a message in his head. A message he would encode and ask the private to bring to Beckers. The sound of the key in the lock surprised him. No one ever came after dinner. He sat up and was fitting the glasses to his face as a soldier came in carrying a chair. The soldier was followed by a woman in uniform. She gestured to a spot where the soldier set the chair down and then she sat in it, taking time to smooth her skirt and open a portfolio before she met his eyes. 

He recognized her from London. Agent Peggy Carter. A Brit who worked with the Americans. He started to stand but she waved at his bed as she sat. Suddenly, he was aware of how he must appear. His clothes – a prison jumpsuit – hung on his body. He was not sure when he had last washed. There must be as much dirt crusted in the creases of his ears and face as there was in his fingers. And the places where his face and head that still grew hair had come in patchy and ragged. Embarrassed by his appearance, he straightened his back and asked, “To what do I owe this visit, Ms. Carter?” 

“Agent,” she corrected. 

“Agent,” he agreed. 

“Tell me, Dr. Zola,” she began. “What do you know of the events of the last few months?” 

He blinked at her. “I have heard that the Allies won. On both fronts. That an atomic bomb was used on Japan.” 

“Two,” she corrected. 

“Two,” he agreed. 

She studied him, crossing her ankles. He went on. “I heard that there is to be a trial of Nazi officers and scientists.” 

“Two,” she corrected. 

“Two?” he asked. 

She nodded but did not clarify. 

“What I have not heard is how far down the ranks you intend to go.” 

“Well,” she said, “That is the question.” She uncrossed her ankles and opened a portfolio on her lap. “The reaction of the world to the atomic bomb has been a mix – horror at the destruction and relief that the war is over, no matter what the cost. Of course, they don’t know what you and I know.” 

He thought of the Valkyerie, of the bay with its fifty-three bombs. “Some say the world will end in fire…” he commented. 

She frowned at him. “Is that what you desire, Dr. Zola? That the world will burn?” 

He looked at her and shook his head, “Frauline, no. That has never been my intent. Quite the opposite in fact.”

“And yet you created a bomb that was at least as powerful as the destruction wrought on Japan.” 

He looked at her. His designs had been at least twice as powerful as the bombs unleashed on Japan. “Decisive action, Agent. It would have ended the war. The world would have been able to move on, to heal.” 

“With Schmidt at the helm?” 

Zola shrugged. “It did not matter to me. What mattered was that the war be brought to an end, that the senseless destruction ceased.”

She looked at him thoughtfully and closed the portfolio. “There will be two trials, Doctor Zola. For war crimes,” she said. “On the military side, it will be generals, commanders of the concentration camps and the like. Had he survived, Schmidt would certainly have been in that group.” Leaning back in her chair, she looked at him. “You, though, have never been military, have you doctor?” 

He shook his head. “No,” he said. 

“The second trial has already been dubbed ‘The Doctor’s Trial’. It is for the scientists.” 

He swallowed hard, his heart beating rapidly in his chest. 

“That you were complicit in war crimes is well documented,” she said. “In the 107th alone, we can document the use of slave labor in the Hydra factories that you oversaw. Furthermore, while I have no doubt that you personally committed war crimes, I have read the medic’s report on Sergeant Barnes after his rescue, his death makes the extent of your crimes impossible to document.” 

Zola’s eyes were glued on Agent Carter. He did not dare move. 

“The prosecution finds itself in a bit of a bind. They fear that there is insufficient evidence to convict you, and they do not want to try you and risk you not being found guilty.”

“So what are you going to do with me?” 

“Well, Doctor, that is the question, isn’t it?” Agent Carter opened the portfolio again and glanced at the contents. Her lips turned down, twisted in revulsion. “You joined the Nazi party in 1934, is that correct?” 

Zola’s brow wrinkled as he tried to remember. “Around then, I suppose. It might have been 1935. I was concluding my doctorate work in Berlin.” 

“And why did you join?”

He blinked at her. “To obtain funding my work, of course. I design weapons, Frauline Carter. Governments at war, or looking to prevent war, are who buys weapons.” 

“Do you share in the beliefs of the Nazi party?” 

“What, of the supremacy of the Arayan race and all of that?” Zola asked.

“Of course.” 

He laughed. “I am Swiss, Agent Carter. I am not even German. I joined the Nazi party for funding, nothing more.” 

“So it would be no problem for you to renounce your membership. Publically.”

“No.” 

“And what of Hydra?” 

“Schmidt was a madman and his visions of world domination were insane. However, he was a madman with access to a power supply unlike any the world has seen. My affiliation with Hydra began, and ended, with the tesseract.”

“I see. And going forward?”

“I would like to continue my research.” 

“You will not be allowed to continue it for Germany.” 

“Germany is a wreck, Agent Carter. Hitler has left it a ruin. They could not afford to fund the kind of work I do.” 

“That is what I thought,” she said. She looked him up and down, and again he was aware of how filthy he was, how he must smell, and her lips curled in disgust. “Based on the strength of the intelligence you provided us, and your answers just now, I am authorized to make you an offer, Dr. Zola.”

“I am listening.” 

“If you renounce all your ties to the Nazi party and to Hydra, if you allow us to change your public records so that it is clear that not only do you not work for those organizations in the present but you never worked for them, then the US is prepared to offer you a chance to continue your work in the United States, under the supervision of the Strategic Scientific Reserve.” 

“As a prisoner?”

“No,” she said. “As a scientist. We will provide housing, pay you at an appropriate wage, and expect your full participation in our work.”

“And if I say no?” 

She closed the portfolio and uncrossed her ankles. “I do not know, doctor. What I do know is that the US will not stand by while the Soviets recruit you for their programs, nor will they allow you to stay in Europe. I fear that an accident may occur.”

He let out a breath in an explosive chuff. “I understand.” 

She got to her feet and, stumbling, he did too. “There will be more interviews, but, preliminarily, I will say, welcome to Operation Paperclip.” She did not offer her hand as she said this. She spoke in a clipped tone and turned on her heal to walk over to the door. She banged on the door. The soldier opened it and she walked out. The soldier came in, took the chair, and left. 

Zola collapsed back on his bed, staring at the door. He had not realized until this instant how the weight of the possibility of a trial had pressed on him, distracted him, caused him to loose focus. Now that the weight was gone, the relief was immense. After a few minutes, he lay on his back, his hands behind his ears, and began to plan for the future.


	5. Prisoner of Peace

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We are but whirlpools in a river of ever-flowing water... We are not stuff that abides, but patterns that perpetuate themselves.  
>  _-Norbert Wiener_

“Did you see the announcement, Arnim?” Schreiber asked as he passed the pot of mashed potatoes around the table. Schreiber was a whip-cord thin little man with a nervous tick in his eye. He sat to Zola’s left. 

“Announcement?” Zola asked, taking the pot. 

They were speaking in German, but Wolff, who answered Zola, replied in English. Over the last month, Wolff had gotten tired of Schreiber mocking his Stralsund accent and Zola asking him to repeat himself so he just spoke in English all the time. “Norbert Wiener is coming to give a talk.” 

Zola put a blob of mash potatoes on his plate next to the fried egg and looked across the table at Wolf. “You don’t say?” 

“Walsh came around with a flier,” Wolff said. 

“’Came around’” echoed Schreiber in English. Then he continued on in German. “Look at you, Joachim. Getting fancy with the idiom.” 

Wolff ignored Schreiber and looked across the table at Zola. “Will you please pass to potatoes?” he said. “The chicken is only edible if it is hot.” 

Zola passed the to potatoes on to Vogt who was sitting to his right. Vogt was, as usual, was saying nothing. He was blonde-haired and blue-eyed and he watched everything. It set Zola on edge. Vogt reminded him of the SS political officers that followed him around in the early days of his collaboration with Schmidt. 

Schreiber passed the chicken to Zola and Zola passed it on without taking any. “When is he coming?” Zola asked. 

“Next week,” Wolff and Schreiber answered in unison, the English and the German on top of each other. 

Zola took a bite of his potatoes and then commented, “You do know that he is a Jew, don’t you?” He continued to test the waters of his new colleagues. A month ago, the four of them had been flown from the Dustbin to Camp Lehigh, each with a shiny new resume that made no mention of their work for the Nazis. Zola had been given a long list of the conditions of his employment with the SSR, and one of them was that he was not to discuss his work with Hydra, or even mention he had been affiliated with it. If he broke any of the conditions, he would be fired from the SSR and tossed in a hole to rot with Reinhart. He was being cautious.

Schreiber shrugged. “We’re Americans now.”

“Not…” Vogt said. The conversation stopped and they all stared at him. None of them had heard Vogt’s voice in days. “Not…not yet,” Vogt finished. 

Schreiber looked across the table at Vogt. “You know what I mean.”

Vogt shrugged and scooped up a forkful of chicken and potatoes. Zola watched him. Even after a month, Zola still did not know what Vogt did nor why he was in Operation Paperclip. 

Each morning the four of them were escorted by Major Walsh across the churned up snow on the camp’s parade grounds to the drafty warehouse where they had been given lab space. Vogt carried a stack of notebooks with him. Once in the lab, Zola and Wolff and Schreiber, all electrical engineers, settled down at their benches and tried to work under Walsh’s tedious scrutiny. He claimed to be an engineer, but he was an idiot. He had completed bachelor’s degree in mechanical engineering ten years before, and ever since he had worked desk jobs in the Army Corp of Engineers. Vogt, unlike the other three of them, disappeared into some corner of the warehouse only to silently reappear, his fingers ink-stained and his brow furrowed, when Walsh called for lunch. 

They ate in silence for a few minutes. Wolff poked at the chicken with his fork. “Arnim,” he said, glancing up at Zola. “You are missing nothing not eating the meat. American chicken is like eating rubbery cardboard.” 

Schreiber shook his head, “It’s just chicken. It’s fine.” 

Wolff wrinkled his nose. “It’s not fine,” he insisted. “How can they make bombs that turn a city to glass, but they can’t grow a decent chicken?” 

There was silence as they all stared at him. 

Abruptly, Wolff put his fork down. It hit his plate with a clink. His shoulders dropped and he stared at the mess of mashed potatoes and half-eaten chicken. After a few seconds he sighed and glanced at Schreiber. “We’re Americans now,” he said with resignation as he picked up his fork and scooped up a bite. 

***

The seminar was held in a conference room in one of the buildings where the non-science military staff did whatever it was they did. The four Operation Paperclip scientists sat together with Major Walsh. The rest of the scientific staff gave them a wide berth, leaving two or three empty chairs between themselves and the Germans. 

Norbert Wiener was a mathematician but it was not his work on signal processing that interested Zola (although the implications for his own work in developing augmented human exoskeletons was staggering). No, it was the other part, where he was applying the stochasticy to a study of feedbacks in natural systems. Randomness imposed on purpose buried in the thousands of messages that natural systems sent to themselves. “It is those messages,” Wiener said, “that we have to study to understand the system as a whole.” To understand how a muscle worked, you needed to understand the way the muscle communicated with the brain that told it what to do, with the heart that sent it oxygenated blood, with the kidneys that carried away the waste product of the muscle’s exertions. Some of those communications were direct, like the brain to muscle. Nerve cells carried the orders like a telegraph from a general to a private. But other communications were more random. There was no direct connection between a muscle and the stomach, yet a thousand random signals told a person when they needed to eat. 

The talk was invigorating, spanning sociology, engineering and biology. The questions, many of which were posed by the military officers, brought it even further afield. “The more we get out of the world,” Wiener commented in response to a question, “the less we leave. Eventually we will have to pay the piper.” It was common sense, of course, but Zola had never paused to consider the implications, that someday even tediously thin power sources like oil might be gone. Could that be? Or was oil more like milk from a cow? The more you took, the more that was made? Until, of course, you stopped feeding the cow.

Perhaps that had been his mistake all along. The world was a big place with tremendous momentum. Perhaps it was folly to think it could be toppled in one shove. One shove may send it skittering and rocking but it would take hundreds of pushes, each at the right moment, to send it flipping over, to get it to the point where people would surrender, rather than be defeated. 

To get a system swinging that far would take time and patience and an organization that could persist over decades. Schmidt’s Hydra had fallen apart in less than ten years. Could he, Zola, not a leader of men but a designer of weapons, rebuild something that could survive the test of time? 

It was, he supposed, all in the design. Redundancies, self-correcting negative feedbacks, proper conditioning…Schmidt had been many things. Brilliant, visionary, ruthless but not patient. Good design took time, time that Schmidt had neglected to take. Zola, on the other hand, had that patience. 

Somewhere in the post-seminar discussions, Zola lost the thread. His colleagues moved from the chairs and towards the coffee urns waiting on the back table. He sat staring at the black board, smudged with half rubbed out equations, thinking over conversations with Schmidt. 

Back in those days, he had been so excited by the promise of the tesseract he had not thought through to anything else. He had not paid attention to Schmidt’s design of the organization. He had been immersed in the science. Now, the tesseract was lost and Schmidt was gone. (Possibly dead but Zola did not think he would be so lucky.) Cisterna had been killed by the Australian negros. Reinhart, crazy bastard that he was, was in prison somewhere. (The Americans had not even bothered to try Reinhart.) Zola had no doubts that if he stepped out of line and Carter or Stark caught him, he would join him. 

A hand touched his shoulder. Zola looked up. It was Wolff. “Time to go,” he said. 

The four of them walked back, escorted as always by, Major Walsh. The house they were billeted in was at the end of a row of identical officer’s houses that were lined up facing the camp’s parade ground. On the outside, it was whitewashed and it matched the rest of the houses, but lacked the touch of a woman. The other houses had been trimmed for Christmas, with garlands of greenery and strings of lights. Their house was plain, without decorations. 

Inside their house was equally Spartan. The furnishings had been gathered on a shoe-string budget. There was a worn couch, musty rugs and a scratched kitchen table surrounded by four unmatched, rickety chairs. There were no photographs on the walls nor were there holiday decorations in the windows. Schreiber had asked Major Walsh for better accommodations, perhaps to have the cracks in the floor fixed so it would not be so drafty, but Major Walsh had scoffed and walked away. 

As they walked across the parade grounds, Schreiber and Wolff walked together with Walsh. Walsh was earnestly trying to suggest that some of Wiener’s signal processing algorithms may be useful to their work. Wolff was, for his own amusement, toying with Walsh, pretending to agree with him, while Schreiber played along. 

Zola was content to walk in silence, side by side with Vogt. It was dark and in the distance they could hear card games and singing from the enlisted barracks. 

They got to their house and Wolff looked at Walsh, “I’ll think about it, Major,” he promised earnestly. 

Schreiber punched Wolff on the shoulder and commented in German, “You are such an ass.” 

Wolff winked at Schreiber and then said, “Night Major,” cheerfully in English, walking into the house. 

Zola and Vogt said nothing, following their colleagues in as Walsh turned to walk off. Once in the house, he headed for the steps. Schreiber called after him, “Arnim, I got a fifth of belly-decay…” 

Wolff punched Schreiber back on the shoulder and said, laughing, “It’s called rot-gut, you idiot.” 

Schreiber glared at Wolff as he rubbed his shoulder. He continued from where he left off, “from the soldiers. You want to join Joachim and I?” 

Zola paused at the steps and turned back to face Schreiber. “No thank you. I’m going to turn in early.” 

“What about you, Vogt?” 

Vogt raised his hand and followed Zola up the stairs. 

Later, as Zola lay in bed not yet sleeping, mulling over what Wiener said, there was a knock on the door. He sat up and stared at the door. After a moment he reached for his glasses and said, “Come in,” as he fit them on his face. 

Vogt, still wearing his overcoat, opened the door. He was carrying a sheaf of paper. He held it out to Zola. His right hand was smudged with ink. 

Frowning, Zola took them. “What is this?” he asked. 

Vogt turned on the light and Zola saw pages of equations. “Feedback,” Vogt replied. 

Zola looked up at Vogt. “I do not understand.” 

“You will need… need… need,” Vogt struggled through the words. “Need to sel… sel… selectively amp… amp….” He growled in frustration and tried again. “A knife… knife…. knife…Bollocks!” Vogt threw up his hands and turned to go but when he got to the door he paused and looked back at Zola. “And time. Maybe a cen… cen… cen… century.” 

Zola tore his eyes away from Vogt to look back down at the papers. That was more words strung together than he had ever heard the man say, and now he knew why. It was amazing he had survived the Nazi regime. Zola flipped through the papers. He recognized Brown’s postulates about stochastic processes. He recognized the Fourier transform and the creation of Banachian space. He saw the use of power spectra and the Reimann zeta function and Bernoulli notation for the selection of peaks for amplification. Vogt had started with Wiener’s work and … Zola could not tell. He was not a mathematician. Not like this. This would require study. 

“I don’t understand,” he repeated, looking up at Vogt. 

“Hail Hydra,” Vogt replied, speaking softly. He slipped out the door and shut it behind himself. 

Zola stared at the closed door for a long time before he turned back to the papers. 

***

The cold, raw weather had given way to an outbreak of the flu that had half the base laid up. At first there had been a panic that it would explode like the Spanish flu did after the Great War, but it didn’t. After a few days, the soldiers recovered and went back to work. 

Zola, though, had gotten it bad. The flu settled in his lungs and turned into pneumonia. Zola had been taken to the hospital infirmary and an MP had been stationed by his bedside. It was laughable. He couldn’t stand, much less run off. Why did he need a police guard? But within a day or two, the MP had also come down with it and he had not been replaced. 

A few days later his fever was gone, but he was still in bed, too weak to walk unassisted. He slept a lot. When he was awake, he tried to read but the books they had were all in English and reading English gave him a headache. He was very bored. 

“Doctor?” Zola was propped up on pillows and when he looked up he saw medic at the foot of his bed. The medic was a short man wearing a lab coat over an army uniform. The man held an envelope. 

“Yes?” he said. 

“Are you feeling better?” 

Zola shrugged. “You need the bed?”

The medic laughed and came over, pulling a stool up next to his bed. Zola suddenly had a visceral memory of performing the same motion back in Krieschberg as he checked on his subjects. He fought down an urge to swing his feet over the side just to prove to himself that they were not tied down. The only thing that kept him still was that he knew that his vision would swim if he tried and the thought of showing how weak he was made him nauseous. 

“Are you okay?” the medic asked concerned. He reached out for Zola’s wrist. “You look pale.” 

Zola pulled his arm from the man’s grasp and took a breath. “It’s nothing,” he insisted. 

“If you say so.” 

Zola took another breath and looked down at the forgotten book in his lap. He remembered the moment again, the way his subjects had struggled and fought when he injected them with his serum. Unlike Erskine, he had used a slow infusion. His version of the serum killed the subject if it was injected too fast. Every test, he spent hours sitting next to the subject, waiting to see if the serum would take hold or, what happened far more often, if the subject’s body would give out first. 

The medic held out the envelope, pulling him back to the present. “I have something for you,” he said. 

Zola took the envelope. “What is it?”

The medic said nothing. Zola opened the envelope and pulled out several photographs. His eyes widened. 

The photograph on top showed his second subject, Sergeant Barnes, sitting in a cage. Zola looked sharply at the medic and the medic met his eyes without expression. He looked back down at the picture. In the photograph, Barnes was hunched against the wall, one arm around his knees, staring blankly across the room. His hair was bristly and short, like it was growing in after being shaved. In the next picture, Sergeant Barnes was standing against a wall, stripped to the waist. He looked healthy enough, but strained. His eyes were hooded and hollow and he stared at the camera like he was going to attack it. His left arm was gone about halfway between the shoulder and elbow. His ribs showed plainly in his chest. Several more photographs showed close ups of the subject and various parts of his body. The stump had healed cleanly. Any other damage that had been done to him by the fall must have healed. There was not even a scar.

After a minute, he said, his eyes on the picture, “You are Russian?” 

“For now,” the medic said. 

Zola looked back up at the medic. “I see,” he said switching to German. The medic met his eyes and dipped his head the tiniest of amounts. 

“Leviathan?” Zola asked. 

Again the medic nodded nearly imperceptibly. 

“You speak like a native,” Zola said, switching back to English, suddenly aware of his own accent. 

The medic shrugged. “I have a good ear.” 

Zola looked down at the pictures and flipped back to the first image. He studied the subject’s posture: the way his shoulders drooped, the way his forehead was propped on his knees. “What happened to his arm?” he finally asked. 

“When the soldiers found him at the bottom of the ravine, it was gone. It must have been torn off in the fall. His skull was crushed and he was nearly dead. Keeping him alive was all that they thought about for weeks. Now, he has amnesia.” 

Zola looked up at the medic. “Really?” he asked. 

The medic nodded. 

“That may be useful,” Zola continued. He flipped back to a photograph that showed him standing, facing the camera. “It is impressive, the condition he is in. The doctors are to be commended.” 

“Why do you want him?”

“Tell me, does he cooperate?” Zola asked. 

The medic shook his head. “No. They tried drugs but he burns through them too fast. He fights every step of the way. He’s killed two different nurses when they thought they had him sedated but he wasn’t.” 

Zola nodded, flipping to the next photo. “Such spirit,” he murmured to himself. 

“The have taken to starving him,” the medic continued. “Bribing him with food the way you train a dog.” 

Reluctantly, Zola slid the photographs back into the envelope. “Excellent,” he said. “Can you get them a message?”

“Of course.”

“Tell them they are not to break him.” 

The medic frowned. “They will not be pleased to hear that. What do you want him for, anyway?” 

Zola held out the envelope. “I need a knife. Not just any knife. A scalpel,” he said. 

“Sir?” the medic asked as he took the envelope. 

“Are you actually,” Zola gestured at the medic’s army uniform. 

The medic grinned. “Sergeant Carson, U.S. Army, at your service.” 

“That is most fortuitous.” 

***

“Arnim?” Zola looked up. He was feeling better and had been back to work for a couple of weeks. He had magnifiers down over his glasses and everything was a blur. He set the soldering iron down and flipped the magnifiers up. 

“Yes?” he said, his eyes focusing on Schreiber. 

“Another letter for you,” Schreiber replied, holding out the envelope. 

“Really?”

Schreiber nodded. “Yeah. It’s from someplace called,” he looked at the postmark. “Pough…keep…sie. Where do American’s get these words?” 

“Huh,” Zola said, taking it from Schreiber. “Thanks.” 

Zola looked at the envelope briefly before tucking it into his pocket. He was about to flip the magnifiers back down over his glasses when he realized Schreiber was still standing there. 

“Aren’t you going to open it?” Schreiber asked. 

“Later,” Zola said. 

“Who is it from?” 

“I don’t know. They did not sign the outside of the envelope.” 

Schreiber frowned, the tick in his eye twitching, and then turned away. “Fine,” he said. 

Later that night, back in the privacy of his room, Zola opened the envelope. As he expected, it was in code. A week ago, a new key had been delivered to him, nestled between the pages of a journal article that he had ordered from Princeton. 

He sat down to translate the message. 

Half an hour later, he had it. The message was from Carson. The SSR had a Leviathan agent in custody. A man named Johann Fenhoff. This man, Johann Fenhoff, may be the answer he had been looking for. 

***

“Are you sure this is a good idea, sir?” Sergeant Carson asked, looking at Zola in the rearview mirror of the car. 

“Tell me about the guard,” Zola replied pulling at his suit jacket. Over the last few months, he had put back on most of the weight he had lost while imprisoned in the Dustbin. The damned coat, which had never fit well, now pulled across his shoulders. He didn’t consider himself a vain man, but he did like his clothes to fit properly.

“He’s not Hydra,” Carson said. “He’s just very blackmail-able. He has a problem with the bottle and the ponies.” 

“And you have access to that kind of money?” 

Sergeant Carson glanced at him in the mirror and then looked back at the road. “Sergeant Carson does not, no. But as a Leviathan agent, well, things can be arranged.” 

Zola nodded thoughtfully, tugging at his suit again. As uncomfortable as it was, he vastly preferred it to the prison uniform he had been forced to wear at the Dustbin. The thought that in an hour or so he was going to trade this in for another prison uniform, allow this guard he had never met to lock him in a cell with a man who could hypnotize men as intelligent as Howard Stark, made him profoundly nervous. They kept him and the other Operation Paperclip scientists on a pretty tight leash at Lehigh, but it was still better than a cell. 

However, the risk was worth it. This Johann Fenhoff may prove to be the tool he needed to begin to put Hydra back together. To build an organization that could, in time, come to realize Hydra’s promise. He found himself thinking of his conversation with Agent Carter. Weapons on the scale he had designed were for one purpose: to end wars, not to fight them. But this war, the war for the future of humanity, this was a war that had to be fought delicately. Patiently. There would come a time when humanity’s freedom was more than the world could afford. Norbert Wiener’s words came back to him again: the more we take from the world, the less there is. Less world and more people, it was a recipe for chaos that made the war they just finished look like the toddler spat it was. 

Carson had smuggled files to Zola, the contraband pages interlaced with copies of journal articles that were related to Zola’s work. Zola poured through those files. Some were sent from Beckers who had been released from the Dustbin and was quietly teaching at a French university. Others were from Leviathan – personal files about Fenhoff and updates on his subject. Zola had never been so grateful for the drafty cracked floorboards of the ratty house or Major Walsh’s stupidity. He burned most of the papers after he read them, but some required more study and he hid them in the floor. A plan started to form in his mind, patterned off Vogt’s mathematical model and shaped by the invigorating diet of new information Carson was providing him. It all came down to the idea he had first had back in the factories, watching the conscripted workers. Fear may be a faster way to win compliance than loyalty, but a willing surrender would last, where fear would fester with insurrection. 

Zola asked Carson to find a way for him to meet Fenhoff. They found out that Fenhoff was going to be transferred to an SSR facility known as The Farm, about an hour upstate from Camp Lehigh. Getting off base without attracting attention took a lot of planning. Zola heard of a conference at Princeton on Intrinsic Power and he requested permission to attend. Major Walsh agreed. Carson acquired forged orders, allowing him to be Zola’s driver. Carson also found the guard that would let Zola in, and more importantly, back out, of Fenhoff’s cell. 

“Well,” Zola said. “Hopefully this Fenhoff is the answer I need.” 

“Colonel Fyodor assures me he is.”

Zola stared out the window, watching as winter-brown field passed by. He mused how, not quite a year ago, he had been sitting in the train, travelling from Greece to Hydra HQ. How far he had fallen. But, by the same token, there was opportunity here, opportunity like he never had under Schmidt’s dictatorial grasp. 

Carson slowed the car and maneuvered it onto a dirt road. Ten minutes later, they came into sight of a white-washed farmhouse and a red barn. They parked in the driveway between the two buildings as chickens scattered from the car. In the distance, he could hear the bass clang of cowbells. Carson twisted around and looked at Zola. “You ready, sir?” 

Zola looked at the farmyard and then nodded, hoping that this would work. If anything went wrong, if word got back to Agent Carter or Colonel Phillips or Major Walsh, he was done. They’d find out what he had been up to. They’d find Beckers and Carson. They’d find Vogt. They’d find his subject. Zola would never see the light of day again. 

But then, the promise of what Fenhoff had, his ability to twist the minds of his targets, to convince them to do something contrary to their own best interest, even contrary to their own survival, was incredible. If all went well, he could both protect Hydra through the infancy of its rebirth and deliver his subject to his potential, making him the razor sharp scalpel that Zola needed him to be. 

Zola looked at Carson. Taking a deep breath, he said, “I am ready.” 

Carson held out a pair of handcuffs, dangling them over the back of the front seat by the chain. Zola took them and closed them on his wrists, his pulse racing as the cold metal closed around his arms. Carson came around the car and opened the car door, stepping back as Zola climbed out. 

When he stood, Zola realized that his coat was unbuttoned. The angle of his hands would not allow him to fix that, so he satisfied himself by awkwardly pulling down on the sides so that it hung straight. 

Carson put a hand on Zola’s arm and held it firmly as they walked across the farmyard. The barn, Zola noticed, had two doors, both closed. One was large. Perhaps it was a door for tractors or livestock. The other was much smaller, sized for a man. Carson pressed a button next to the human-sized door and an armed guard in a nondescript uniform opened it. 

The guard was a large man. He was easily a head taller than Zola and he had a mane of thick, dark hair. He glanced at Zola but then focused on Carson. “I was wondering if you’d show up, Sarge,” he said. 

Carson shrugged. “Traffic,” was all he said. He let go of Zola’s arm and stepped back. “When should I come back?” he asked. 

“The man you want is not here yet. They still have him in some holding pen in the city. I’d say, give it a week.” 

Zola felt his hands go clammy, twisting around each other in the cuffs. His off-base pass was only for two days. He looked at Carson, “The meeting at…” 

Carson met his gaze. “I’ll take care of it, Doctor.” 

“But...” Zola protested. 

Carson ignored him and looked back at the guard. “I’ll see you in a week. I’ll have your money then.”

The guard held his hand out to Carson. “It’s good doing business with you.” 

Carson shook the guard’s hand and then walked away. Zola felt his knees go wobbly as the guard gripped his arm and dragged him through the door and into a tack room. Dusty saddles and bridles dangled from hooks. There was a doorway in the back of the room that was standing open. Inside the door was a concrete stairwell leading down. 

The guard led him down the stairs (another door shut behind him) and he found himself in the anteroom of a prison. There was a desk for the watch officer (a half played game of solitaire was laid out) and an unlit corridor that stretched out behind a heavy metal gate. 

This was a prison unlike the Dustbin in every way. Clean, modern, and intimidating. Zola tried to talk to the guard, but the guard ignored him. He found himself being uncuffed and hustled through a change of clothes into a blue prison uniform which, thankfully, fit. Then he was escorted down a hall, past a row of locked doors, to a cell. The guard opened the door. 

He hesitated at the door and looked at the guard. The guard looked back at him. “What are you waiting for?” he asked. Swallowing, Zola stepped in and the door clanged shut behind him. 

***

Zola had two days of nerve racking solitude. The guard brought him meals. They consisted of some of the best food he had had in years. Eggs where the yolk was a deep yellow, fresh cheese on crusty bread, some sort of a green leaf like spinach cooked in a way that he was not familiar with but was incredibly tasty. Perhaps the good food was because of the farm over his head. This was not a prison like the Dustbin had been, nor was it a military base like Lehigh or the Hydra facilities. It was remarkable how the food lifted his spirits. 

The cell had a desk and paper. A proper toilet. Bunk beds. Space to walk six small or five large steps. It was almost a room. Except for the locked door, it was nicer than the house he lived in at Camp Lehigh. 

He used the time to fret and to plan. He hoped that Carson had worked out an excuse for why he was not back at Camp Lehigh on time. He hoped no one would actually call Princeton and check on his attendance at the conference. He wondered about his subject, imprisoned on the other side of the world, and hoped they were treating him right. 

He realized he had a lot of experience with the state of mind Fenhoff would be in. Fenhoff was imprisoned by the Americans after a failed attempt to cause chaos in New York City. But, as Zola had found, even from within prison walls, new opportunities could arise. There was hope. He was not defeated. There were chances lurking in the shadows that he never could have dreamed about when he was working in the open. That was the emotion he would have to appeal to. 

On lunch of the third day as the guard delivered the tray he said, “The man you want to meet?” 

Zola looked up at him. He was sitting at the desk, working on a circuit diagram, trying to resolve a problem he had been stuck on for a couple of weeks. “Yes?” 

“He’ll be here tomorrow morning.” 

Zola put down the pencil. “Thank you,” he said. 

“They are delivering him gagged,” the guard said. 

“How will he eat?” Zola asked as he stood and took his own lunch from the guard’s hands. 

The guard shrugged. “The memo said something about earplugs. I suppose we are going to take it off when he eats.”

Zola nodded. “That sounds prudent,” he said. It was fortunate, he supposed, that the Americans were soft like that. Zola had worried that they would cut out Fenhoff’s tongue after what he had done. 

The guard nodded. “What about you?” the guard asked. 

Zola looked at him. “Can you take me out of here?” 

The guard considered the request and then shrugged. “Sure, I guess I can do that. The other guards may ask questions, but I outrank them. There are three empty cells. No reason you can’t eat in one of them.” 

Zola put lunch his tray on the desk, covering up the circuitry problem. “Thank you,” he said again. 

The guard shrugged. “I’m getting paid. If you don’t leave here safe, I won’t see a dime.” 

Zola had not known that. It was a relief to hear. 

The guard shut the door and Zola was alone again. 

The next morning, about an hour after breakfast, Zola heard the door unlock. He moved back into the shadows to watch. The guard who opened the door was not the one they had paid off. He stood aside as Fenhoff, with a contraption wrapped around his head that held his mouth shut, stepped in. 

“What’d you say?” commented the guard as Fenhoff walked by. Fenhoff looked at him. The guard continued. “Can’t hear you. You are gonna have to speak up.” 

Fenhoff grunted with disgust and the guard laughed. The door slammed shut. 

With a discouraged sigh, Fenhoff walked across the room and sat on the edge of the bed. 

From the shadows, Zola spoke, “Don’t despair friend. The food here is actually quite good.” Fenhoff looked up, squinting into the darkness. “A minor consolation, I know,” Zola continued, stepping out of the shadows. 

Fenhoff was watching him now, studying him with narrowed eyes. “You had a vision,” Zola said walking towards Fenhoff, “and it didn’t come to pass.” Fenhoff looked down, his eyes closing in defeat. _Yes,_ Zola thought, watching him. _This is working._

Zola stood directly in front of Fenhoff and said, “What is the point of anything now?” He remembered that feeling well, those months in the Dustbin. What was the point? But he had been wrong then, as Fenhoff was wrong now. “A bit of time, a bit of quiet, new visions will arise,” Zola said. Fenhoff lifted his head, considering the idea. 

Now, while he had Fenhoff’s attention, it was time to appeal to his vanity. “I am familiar with your work on matters of the mind, Herr Doctor,” Zola said. That did it. That attracted Fenhoff’s attention because he looked up, meeting Zola’s eyes for the first time. “It would give me great pleasure to hear your thoughts on this.” As soon as the words were out of his mouth, Zola knew they were the wrong words. Fenhoff started to look away, but Zola recovered. On the desk was a stack of paper from his work. He picked up the paper and the pencil. “Perhaps there is another way for us to collaborate,” he ammended. 

Fenhoff looked at the paper, considering but he did not reach for it. Zola took a step forward and continued. “I know things seem bleak,” he said, “but you are, in fact, a fortunate man.” Fenhoff was looking down, but Zola plowed on. “You are in prison, yes, but it is an American prison.” Fenhoff looked up at him, questions in his eyes. Zola went on, “and America is the land of opportunity,” he said barely able to keep the delight out of his voice. 

Now, Fenhoff did reach for the paper and Zola handed it over to him. “You?” he wrote. 

Zola looked at the word. “I am Arnim Zola,” he said.

“I know,” Fenhoff scrawled. “You are not in prison?”

Zola looked at Fenhoff in surprise. How had he worked that out? But then he shook his head. “Not anymore,” he said. “I work for the Americans now.” 

Fenhoff looked up meeting Zola’s eyes and then he looked back at the paper. “Tell me more,” he wrote. 

***

Three days later Zola knocked on Vogt’s door and Vogt said, “Come.” 

He walked in. Vogt was at his desk. He looked up at Zola. His blonde hair seemed luminescent in the low light. “I have it,” Zola said with out preamble. 

“A … a … a … knife must be wielded with pre…pre…precision.” 

“I have it,” Zola repeated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The sense of tragedy is that the world is not a pleasant little nest made for our protection, but a vast and largely hostile environment, in which we can achieve great things only by defying the gods; and that this defiance inevitably brings its own punishment.  
>  _-Norbert Wiener_

**Author's Note:**

> Spiderfire would like to thank:  
> \- [neurovicky](http://neurovicky.tumblr.com/) for the fabulous art and the encouragement that kept me going to the end.  
> \- [bienfilatre](http://bienfilatre.tumblr.com/) who was a beta and cheerleader and who encourages my interest in Hydra characters.  
> \- Mithen and the others on [Superhero Muses](http://superhero-muses.livejournal.com/) and the [Write Every Day](http://navaan.livejournal.com/196341.html) crowd over on livejournal. This is the longest thing I have ever written - when I started I thought I was going to squeak into the big bang at like 10,001 words. Ha, I say. :) Their encouragement and advice has resulted in me trying more complex stories.  
> -[eatingcroutons](http://eatingcroutons.tumblr.com/) for her remarkable MCU timeline and her interest in exploring evil through fiction. When I get down on myself, when people ask me - why can't you write about nice things, I visit her [hydra wank](http://eatingcroutons.tumblr.com/tagged/hydra%20wank) tag and think - maybe this is important too.  
> \- bluedog for being bluedog.


End file.
